


"And that is why the waters of the ocean taste of salt"

by Tussilago_Farfara



Series: After dark [2]
Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Minor Violence, Off-Screen Murder, Vampires, in-universe lingo, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:38:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tussilago_Farfara/pseuds/Tussilago_Farfara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another background story for a "Vampire: The Masquerade" character.</p><p>This time the story takes place in Hamburg (in 2000), and the protagonist is Lasse Feddersen, a paramedic who gets turned against his will. He doesn't believe a thing his Sire tells him, with disastrous consequences for his family...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Two things before you start:  
> One: English ist not my first language. If you find any mistakes or awkward wording, please tell me and I'll be happy to tweak and correct.  
> Two: There's in-universe lingo again, but I'll turn this into a series ( together with "Where I stood") and put up a third part with a glossary.

It was nights like these that Immanuel Tresker doubted his talents were as useful as his Sire always claimed they were. Not that it wasn't very convenient to be able to alter other people's memories, but this, this was waste.  
The stairwell was dark, the light switch wasn't working. Immanuel cursed and felt his way up with one hand at the wall. The plaster came away under his fingers. What little light from the streetlamps outside made it through the grimy windows illuminated filth and garbage in the corners. Sheesh, what a dump. At least he was spared the smell of the place. On the last landing, yellow light was streaming through a glass pane in the door. Immanuel knocked, two times in fast succession, paused, and a third time. Oskar Sievert, the Sheriff's deputy, opened the door, revulsion and disdain on his angular face.  
"Oh great", Immanuel mumbled. "This is going to be fun."  
"You have work ahead of you, Mr. Tresker." Sievert said and pointed to one of the doors leading from the narrow corridor. The first thing Immanuel saw when he entered the room was Maximilian Hassenpflug, the long-haired Gangrel who had called them. He greeted him, and the other turned around and nodded in reply. His movement revealed the evening's delinquent. The Fledgling, a young man, was sitting on floor, his back to the wall and his arms slung around his knees. His face and shirt were covered in blood. Staring into nothing, he was rocking slightly.  
"Good grief. He' s completely out of it, isn't he?"  
Hassenpflug snorted, disgusted. "No wonder. It was his first murder, after all." He growled, a deep, rumbling sound from deep within his chest, and looked like he would like nothing more than to wring his newly made Child's neck. "Stupid whelp!"  
Said whelp had flinched at the word "murder". So he could still hear.  
"If the victim is dead, what am I doing here?"  
Right on cue, a child began wailing in the next room. Between the sobs, one could make out "daddy" again and again. The young man whimpered and covered his ears. Tresker crouched before him and pulled his hands down.  
"Is that your kid?" he asked calmly. The other man nodded and tried to cover his ears again. Immanuel didn't let him.  
"What's it's name?"  
Instead of an answer, he got a head-shake and another whimper.  
"I asked, what your kid's name is." he insisted.  
Then, hoarsely: "T-Tristan."  
Immanuel stood up and crossed the corridor into the child's room. Blue walls with boats and a Jolly Roger flag. Crouched on the bed was a boy who wasn't old enough for school, bawling his eyes out.  
Tresker squatted in front of the bed. "Hello, Tristan."

 

Lasse felt like someone had tilted his world onto its side. It's a dream, it's a dream, a low voice was whispering in his head. It's not true. But the voice was thin, too thin. Truth. Phhh. The truth was sticking to his hands, his teeth and tongue, warm, red, and metallic.  
Merle was lying on the bed, twisted and torn. Still. Cold.  
I killed her. That voice was clear and loud, loud enough to be heard over the echo of Tristan's cries in his ears. The boy had come into the room, still drowsy, maybe woken by their fight, almost noiseless as it had been, maybe woken by a nightmare. And had found himself in another nightmare, his mother bloody and lifeless, his father equally bloody and his eyes flickering madly. he had looked at him questioningly, still not quite awake. Lasse had grabbed him, brought him to his room and practically thrown him on the bed, slamming the door shut after him. Before he did something to him, too.  
Afterwards he went back to the living room, and was now sitting on the floor, numb. He tried to understand what had happened, what he should do now, tried to ignore Tristan's crying, even though it broke his heart.  
The police. He had to call the police. But what on earth was he going to tell them? I killed my fiancée by sucking her blood. 'cause, you know, I'm a vampire. That would probably land him on the funny farm. Might count as extenuating circumstances.  
Then he remembered Maximilian's voice. How he had told him the commandments. No, the Traditions. _Thou shalt not reveal thy true nature to those not of the blood._ What did that matter anymore? Who cared whether he broke the rules, or what the punishment for it was? But even though his mind reasoned like that, there was a part of him that said different. He was one of them, whether he wanted to or not.  
In the end, he did want he wanted least. But who else was he going to asked for the help than the one who had brought this all over him? Whose instructions he had ignored, which Merle had paid for with her life. His throat closed up, but there were no tears. Can I even cry anymore? After a long while, he dialed the number Maximilian had given him with trembling fingers.  
„Hassenpflug.“  
„This is Lasse... I... I need help.“

 

Tresker had calmed the boy down, cleaned his face and dressed him. With the child on his hip, he went back to the living room, where Sievert and Hassenpflug were still watching over the Fledgling.  
"Are there any other witnesses?" he asked.  
Sievert tensely ran a hand over his face and through his hair. "We're still trying to find out. So far, no one came by, and there were no calls to the police either. But I saw the corpse, somebody had to have heard that."  
"Lasse, did she scream?" the Gangrel asked. The addressed didn't react, and Hassenpflug hit him in the face with his open hand, hard. "Will you fucking answer when asked a question! Did she scream?"  
Lasse looked up at his Sire, confused. "Why would she scream?"  
The other three men exchanged looks: Had the boy lost his marbles?  
"Why? Well you've mauled her pretty bad when you drank from her, that would have made her scream, wouldn't it?"  
"She can't..." the young man countered. When he tapered off, Maximilian raised his hand again. His Child cowered against the wall and raised his hands in defense: "She can't scream. She can't speak either. Merle is mute." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Was."  
"One problem less." Immanuel stated. "Oskar, do you take the boy or should I do it?"  
"I'll do it. I've already arranged it, he'll be taken away tonight." Sievert took the boy, who was calmly letting everything happen, and started to leave the apartment. Lasse heaved himself up from the floor. "Hey, what the hell you think you're doing? Where are you going with him?"  
The Sheriff's right hand threw Maximilian an annoyed glance. "Take care of it." He left. Lasse tried to follow him, but his Sire grabbed him roughly by the scruff of his neck. "You stay. You've fucked up enough for one night." The boy tried to struggle, but Maximilian easily knocked him to ground and set on his chest. While he started to chew out his Child, his voice like ice, Immanuel took his leave. He wasn't in the mood to listen to it when it was explained to the kid that he wouldn't see his son again, or what the little cover-up would cost his Sire and thus probably himself as well.  
His work was done.  
What a waste.

 

Lasse lay curled up on the ground at the foot of Maximilian's bed and was trying desperately - and unsuccessfully - not to think of Tristan. It didn't work. There were enough other things to occupy his mind, but they all came back to his son. The pain everywhere in his body from Maximilian's last beating. The humiliation of being constantly supervised, of having to sleep on the floor like a dog. The maelstrom of feelings concerning Merle's death: remorse, guilt, disgust, despair.  
Lasse wondered whether it would better if his Sire did not sleep longer than he did. Admittedly, like this he had about a quarter of an hour every night to himself, a quarter of an hour where Maximilian didn't make him pay for his aberration. A quarter of an hour respite from disciplinary measures. On the other hand, it meant lying here agonizing.  
Not for the first time he wondered whether he should fish the keys to the bedroom out of his Sire's pockets where he put them each morning after locking them both in. Probably not. It would only earn him another thrashing. And what for, anyway? Where would he go? The pillars of his life, his family, his job, his apartment, nothing existed anymore, disappeared or taken from him, and - sad, but true - Maximilian was all Lasse had left now.  
Perversely, he had the urge to make amends. To obey his Sire, to be a good Child to compensate for his failure. Why was that so important? This man was the one who took his life. Who had killed him, turned him into a vampire, and thus took away his family as well. But all those thoughts didn't help. He still wanted Maximilian's approval.  
Lasse curled up tighter and waited for his Sire to wake up.  
Maybe tonight he would do better.  
Maybe tonight it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from the Rammstein song "Haifisch" ("Shark").
> 
> This is the refrain in German:
> 
> Und der Haifisch der hat Tränen  
> und die laufen vom Gesicht  
> doch der Haifisch lebt im Wasser  
> so die Tränen sieht man nicht.
> 
> In der Tiefe ist es einsam  
> und so manche Träne fließt  
> und so kommt es dass das Wasser  
> in den Meeren salzig ist. 
> 
>  
> 
> English translation (more literal than poetic, sorry):
> 
> The shark has tears  
> and they run from his face  
> but the shark lives in the water  
> so no one sees the tears.
> 
> In the deep it is lonely  
> so many a tear flows  
> and that is why the waters  
> of the ocean taste of salt.


	2. Character description

Lasse is six feet tall and has a strong build.  
He has grey eyes and and a dark blond faux-hawk.  
He was thirty when he died.  
He has an affinity for corduroy pants and rugby shirts.

I Imagine him looking like this:  
http://www.gettyimages.de/detail/foto/man-with-a-mohawk-lizenzfreies-bild/83605223


End file.
